The public square had been cleared in a methodical, silent efficiency. I watched from above, the vantage point giving me a full picture of the staged executions below. Faces were painted with terror, resignation, defiance each a thread I could trace, each reaction a note in the symphony of fear.
Carrow moved through the crowd as though he owned it, boots ringing against cobblestones, shoulders squared, a predator among prey. He didn't see me, or maybe he didn't care. Either way, it suited me perfectly. My eyes flicked from one mark to the next: posture, timing, hesitation, micro-reactions.
drip… hum… distant scrape…
The hum of the machinery beneath the city thrummed faintly through the ground. I pressed my hand to the cold metal railing of my perch, feeling the pulse beneath, noting the strains and weaknesses. Every vibration carried a story every footstep, every whispered prayer.
I allowed my gaze to linger on the first of the condemned. The boy's eyes darted to the rope, the edge of the platform, to the crowd beyond searching for a savior who would never come. I cataloged his fear, the slight tremor in his jaw, the tightening of his fists. These were patterns, and patterns could be manipulated.
Carrow didn't notice the subtle cues: a head turned, a finger twitching, the way a cry was swallowed before it left a mouth. I did. And I filed them away, quietly, methodically. Knowledge was power, and power didn't need to announce itself in flames to be felt.
crackle… hiss… soft metallic clang…
A line of fire licked the edge of the platform, but it was ceremonial, harmless for now. The smell of smoke teased the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid tang of fear. I traced the flames with my eyes, noting how they moved, how they would behave if someone shifted a line, a rope, a spark.
From above, the crowd was an ecosystem. Panic spread in microbursts, trust faltered in seconds, obedience fractured with a single hesitation. The executions were theater, and I was the unseen critic, cataloging everything to exploit later.
soft footfall… rustle of fabric… low murmur…
My mind wandered to the Veins below, humming in anticipation. They weren't silent anymore they were ready. I traced the conduits, the pressurized pipes, the hidden panels. One misstep, one spark… the first real fire wouldn't need a match. And when it came, it would consume far more than this staged spectacle.
Carrow glanced upward briefly, catching a hint of my shadow. He assumed it was nothing. Good. Let him assume. Assumptions were weapons I wielded better than anyone.
I exhaled slowly, letting the scene imprint itself, storing every tremor, every whisper, every falter. The first flames hadn't needed to strike yet, but the crowd would remember them. And when the real rebellion ignited, I would be ready.
"Not their fear," I muttered under my breath, "ours."
soft hiss… hum… fading scrape…
The square lay silent now, the echoes of orchestrated terror fading into the machinery's hum. And somewhere beneath it all, the Veins waited. Patient. Hungry. Ready.